


Only Performance is Reality

by Xela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dom/sub, Intense, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a whore and Sam's tired of waiting around for him to get done pimping himself out.  Expecting Sam to be waiting for him, like Sam has nothing better to do.  So Sam's done waiting.  Finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Performance is Reality

“It is an immutable law in business that words are words,  
explanations are explanations, promises are promises  
but only performance is reality.”  
~Harold S. Geneen


 

Dean's a whore.

Sam's known this for as long as he can remember. Well, he's normally more charitable about it. Dean flirts with leggy waitresses to get free appetizers. Winks at bartenders for drinks. Lets drunk sorority girls have the illusion of forever for a night. The fact that he only tacitly _promises_ to sleep with them for these goods is moot.

Dean's a whore and Sam's tired of waiting around for him to get done pimping himself out. Expecting Sam to be waiting for him, like Sam has nothing better to do. Like he can't find anything better.

So Sam's done waiting. Finished.

Because Sam's not Dean. He doesn't sleep with every willing skirt (or pair of pants) out there. He can't...he can't...he just _can't._ He's no wired that way. And watching Dean find other people, prove every time that Sam's not what he wants, just something convenient for those times on the road.

There's still that voice in the back of Sam's head that hopes tonight, maybe Dean will pick him. Maybe maybe maybe.

They're not in the bar five minutes when Dean peels off to chat up some blonde with an impossibly small waist and interchangeable features. Sam watches her giggle and Dean favors her with a slow, pleased smile. His anger hardens. He doesn't need to see this. Doesn't need to be here. He spins around...

..right into the arms of a tall, leggy redhead. Sam ends up with half a drink spilled down his shirt and a date. Her name is Erica and she's a resident at the local hospital, hoping to specialize in thoracic surgery. She's smart and funny and really, really hot. It takes some blushing and stuttering for Sam to get used to being the center of someone's attention again. To have someone focusing as completely on him as he does on them.

He almost misses her invitation to 'walk her out.' (He'll be the first to admit he's a little out of practice.) At least she's amused when he gapes at her then scrambles quickly out of his seat, face fire-engine red and coordination gone. She says he's endearing and smiles at him, slow and promising.

When they're outside she blindsides him, jerks him into a kiss, steady hands buried in his shirt. He hasn't kissed anyone but Dean in a long, long time, so he's thrown by her technique for a minute. He pulls it together and he must be doing something right because she moans and rubs against the leg he presses between her thighs.

She bites down on his lower lip. Hard. The feeling goes straight to his dick, makes him gasp and loose some of his control. He growls and lifts her up, hands cupping her ass. She wraps her legs around him, squeaking when her back hits against the wall, sandwiched between Sam's hard chest and the unyielding wall. She's so mall and light. He feels like he could break her if he thrust too hard. Her hand worms into his pants and she jerks him off.

“Jesus, you are a big boy, aren't you?” She sounds excited and pleased. He rests his head on her shoulder, whimpering. Fuck but surgeons have good hands. Sam cranes his neck down to suck on her collar bone, breathing hard. She smells good, like sex and girl.

The world spins and Sam goes stumbling back, sex-fuzzed brain trying to make sense of the world.

“The fuck man?” he hears Erica say, her voice holding the same edge Jessica's always did when she was righteously indignant and Sam had better apologize or lose his balls.

“Sorry, Fire Crotch. Sammy here's got a previous engagement.” What the fuck is Dean doing here? It's a quarter past eleven; he shouldn't be ready to turn in till at least two.

“Yeah, I know he does,” Erica snipes back. She's got her arms crossed and glares death at Dean. Dean mirrors her stance, his own displeased scowl darkening his features. “Who the fuck are you, anyways?” Dean's eyes narrow, then light up with malicious intent, and Sam knows _exactly_ what he's going to say.

“His--”

“Ex,” Sam interjects, finding his voice. Dean's head snaps around incredulously. Sam ignores him, brushing past Dean to get to Erica. She smiles at Sam, still full of inviting promise, even as her gaze turns harsh and cold when it drifts to Dean.

“Wanna blow this popsicle stands?” Erica says with a low laugh, and arousal curls warm in Sam's stomach. She reminds him a little of Jess right now; maybe has the whole time.

He opens his mouth to agree, _hell yeah he does,_ when Dean's hand settles heavy on Sam's shoulder.

“Sam. Get in the car.” It's the dark, commanding tone Dean uses to take Sam down and make him fly. His instinct to obey wars with his anger, and Sam's not sure which will win and it leaves paralyzed. Erica reaches out and takes his hand.

“Come on, Sam. You don't need this. He's not worth it.” Dean's hand tightens on Sam's shoulder.

“Look, Tickle-Me-Elmo, Sammy and I have a few things to talk about. It's going to take a while, so why don't you find some other guy to whore it up with for tonight.” Erica glances between Dean and Sam, who remains silent and motionless. She stares at the hand on Sam's shoulder, the possessive way Dean stands, and sighs. She signed up for a one night stand, not to play relationship police to two dudes.

“Take care of yourself, Sam Winchester,” she whispers softly. She shoots Dean one last nasty look for good measure before leaving. Sam watches her go with a curious kind of resignation.

“Car, Sammy. NOW.” Dean turns him around and pushes him to the car. They're almost there when Sam remembers to be angry. He jerks away from Dean's hand and scowls, ready to fight. Dean pins him to the side of the car before he can blink, and Dean is in his face, expression scarily intense. He doesn't say anything, just waits until Sam drops his eyes, body going lax and subdued beneath him.

Sam does what Dean wants, climbs in the car then stares moodily out the window. He doesn't wait for Dean when they pull into the the motel, gets out of the car before it's even fully in park and lets himself into the room. Dean can fucking deal with the door himself. Asshole.

Sam roots around for some sleep clothes; he's going to take a shower and go to bed. They can 'talk' in the morning. He laughs hollowly. Talk. Dean doesn't _talk._ Dean walks through life like he owns the place, and you either accept him and leave it at that or get the hell out of his way. You don't talk about anything.

He's really not that surprised when Dean tackles him, pins him to the ground and wrenches his arms up behind his back. He's so fucking tired of everything he doesn't even bother to fight back. The weight of Dean, the act of domination, it usually has him hard as nails in seconds. Tonight he just feels empty. Toneless. Listless.

“What the fuck are you trying to prove, Sammy?”

The hotel carpet smells like stale smoke and looks even uglier up close. Sam can see just how long it hasn't been cleaned. Dean jerks his head up by the hair and Sam's eyes slide closed.

“Answer me,” Dean hisses. Sam would—he really would—if he had the words. The hand not busy ripping Sam's hair out by the roots travels down, worms its way underneath Sam's body searching...

Dean doesn't find what he was looking for. Freezes, in unfamiliar water, before levering himself off Sam and scrambling away until his back hits the bed.

Sam pushes himself into a sitting position. Scrubs his hand through his hair. Shower. Sounds like a great idea. He glances at Dean and feels like he's been sucker punched in the gut.

His brother's always been brash and cocksure, a vibrant light in Sam's world. He's got his issues, but there's a spark in him that drawn people to him, moth-like. Sam included. It's always been there, burning beneath whatever Dean's feeling. Except now. Sam can't find it. Dean's eyes are dull, his face pale and drawn. It scares the shit out of Sam.

“Dean—” Sam starts, but his voice comes out thick and cracked. Dean flinches and turns away, but Sam gets a quick look at Dean's face and it's...not an expression Sam has ever seen before. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dean, I—”

“I gotta, with the, ah,” Dean mumbles as he scrambles to his feet, keeping his face turned away. Grabs his key from the floor and tries to make an escape and the anger's back, hot and deadly. Dean's not getting away with this.

This time, Sam tackles Dean, takes him down hard and fast. Dean struggles, but it's perfunctory and he gives in with alarming speed. When Sam's sure that Dean's not going to try and run out on him, he loosens his grip on Dean's waist and buries his nose in Dean's neck. Breaths in Dean, lets the scent that's comforted him since he was six months old work its magic. 

Dean's hands come up tentatively. One settles loosely on the back of Sam's head, the other rests between his shoulder blades. It feels hesitant. Vulnerable.

Sam settles in, because something is going to happen tonight, and if this is the last time he gets to do this, he's going to damn well milk it for all he can.

The lay in their tangled tableau for a while, neither one of them inclined to move. Dean's heart beats steady in Sam's ear, if a little fast. The only indication Sam has that all is not right in his brother's world.

When the floor gets too hard and Dean shifts uncomfortably, Sam sighs; time to face the music. He starts to pull away, and Dean's arms tense before falling away. Sam pushes himself up to a sitting position and rolls his eyes.

Dean's arms are thrown to the side, away from his body forming a 't.' He looks like Christ about to be crucified. It's so freaking dramatic and ridiculously _Dean._

“You don't have to martyr yourself,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I'm not...fuck.” Sam has no idea what he wants to say, much less what he _should._ Doesn't know what to say that won't send Dean running for the hills. Everything sends Dean running for the hills, or at the very least stonewalling. “No chick flick moments, Sam.” “Christ, do we have to do this now Sam?” “I'm going out, Sam. Don't wait up.”

Sam can't sort through his emotions; he's a swirling vortex of anger and uncertainty and pain. He can't do this. Can't bounce between being Dean's wing man and his after-hours fuck anymore. He takes a deep breath and turns around, only to find Dean standing close behind him. Sam steps back impulsively; he knows how silently Dean can move when he wants to, but it's still surprising sometimes.

“That's what you think?” Dean asks, eyes intent and searching. Sam swallows; he lost the thread of the conversation some miles back. Dean steps closer, and Sam feels small under the force of that look. “That you're just a fuck?”

Sam stares at Dean, mute. He can read the hurt in Dean's eyes, knows he put it there and hates it. He's spent enough time causing Dean pain, and not enough making up for it.

“You're not,” Dean says. Sam wants to believe him. Really wants to believe, because his chance at normal died with Jess. Sam has no misconceptions or illusions about his future. He's a powerful demon's chosen freak who fights the things that go bump in the night. There are no white picket fence in that paradigm. Once you know, you can't forget. That's it. Sam's done. He's met the person he'll be with forever, however long or short that might be.

So Sam's stuck. Paralyzed by the morass of their relationship. There is no forward, can't go back. So he's trapped until Dean lets him go, cuts him loose. Which sucks, because if Dean decides to keep stringing him along....

Sam sucks in a breath when Dean steps close, their bodies almost brushing together. Focused. Sam's been the center of that focus in different situations, but never like this. Sam has a feeling that when Dean strips him, it's not just going to be in the literal sense. He swallows nervously when calloused hands skim across his chest, down his arms. Blunt fingers, knuckles gnarled from years of abuse, slip beneath the hem of Sam's shirt, pads ghosting over taut muscles and heated skin.

Dean draws Sam's t-shirt over his head, pushes up to the balls of his feet because Sammy's a tall fucker. The action brings their chests together, puts Dean at Sam's height and they look at one another, eye-to-eye. Dean stops short of pulling the shirt off, leaving Sam's arms trapped behind his body. Dean's eyes are deep green, intense and arresting.

Dean lets his gaze travel to Sam's lips, dry and parted. He leans in, so slowly Sam buzzes with anticipation, making sure Sam sees him coming. Savoring the build up. Sam's panting by the time Dean's mouth brushes softly against his own, just a dry fusing of their lips, unbelievably chaste. It sends a thrill up his spine. This single act is more erotic than the dirtiest kiss Dean's capable of.

When they break apart Sam's shaking slightly, and he blushes, embarrassed at how unwound he's become from a kiss that didn't even have tongue. Dean rests his forehead against Sam's for a moment, like he's just as affected, but Sam can't believe that. But Dean's ragged breath echoes in his ear, and _what if_ echoes in his mind.

It take ages for Dean to move again, to then walks them back towards the bed, their legs moving in synch, still pressed as close as possible. Sam entrusts his balance to Dean as his arms are trapped behind his back. Dean keeps him safe, like always.

Sam's knees hit the back of the bed. Dean gently pushes him down with a firm hand on Sam's chest and a supportive one at his back. He settles into the vee of Sam's legs, spread wide to accommodate him. Sam's eyes flutter shut as Dean traces patterns across his skin. Unhurried. Like they have all the time in the world. He kisses the long arch of Sam's neck, each touch measured and reverent.

Dean lingers over his favorite spots—the right collar bone where Sam got his first scar; the spot on Sam's ribs where he once had a dark bruise, the tending of which led to their first kiss; Sam's ticklish bellybutton; his tattoo, to name a few—laving them with attention, letting the memories they conjure float around them. There are only three scars on Sam's body that he can't account for. The rest have a story, and Dean has his own versions for the most part. These mark are their shared history, engraved in skin and bone and sinew.

Dean stops at Sam's bellybutton, not venturing any further. Kisses his way back up Sam's chest. Presses one right above the fast pulse of Sam's heart, devout in his worship. When he's done, Sam will never doubt him again. Dean's going to make damn sure of that.

He pushes up on his elbows hovers over Sam for a moment, taking in the view. Sam's arms trapped under his body, hair wild, eyes still wary. Lips not nearly kiss-swollen enough. Braced on his arms, Dean lowers his head to kiss Sam. Presses softly at first, then harder. Deeper. Sam opens beneath him, begs him to come in and taste, flicks his tongue invitingly against the seams of Dean's lips. He sighs and opens for Sam as wholly as Sam opened for him, lets his Sammy pour into him, tangles their lips and tongue together in a slow exploration. Gives whatever he can.

Dean takes nothing for granted. Not the taste or feel of Sam, not his invitation to be here. Dean forgets time exists and learns the secrets of his brother, one after another. Like this is their first time, still tinged with unbridled desperation and snapped tension. The thought unsettles Dean, so he pushes it away in favor of sucking marks into Sam's skin, heading ever down with slow purpose.

Sam gasps, a high stuttering sound, when Dean nips him in the side, hands settling on the waistband of Sam's jeans, thumbs gently brushing the bare skin beneath. Sam wants to curse and buck, tell Dean to get the hell on with it, stop teasing.

He doesn't.

Dean slides Sam's pants down, over his hips. They catch on Sam's erection for a moment, the material bulging until the jeans pull free. His cock bobs against his stomach, a smear of precome left on Sam's stomach.

“FUCK,” Sam swears when Dean leans down and licks the spot.

“We'll get to that, Sammy,” Dean promises. There's something new and soft in Dean's voice, and Sam isn't sure he likes it. He sounds too raw and exposed. Sam looses the thoughts when Dean blows cold air against Sam's cock. Christ, this is torturous.

His cock aches, he's on the edge, and Dean's just blithely taking his goddamn time. He licks the head of Sam's cock, and it's not nearly enough, just a teasing touch that's there-and-gone. He kisses and nips and brushes against Sam, nothing more than the impression of a touch. It makes Sam tremble and sweat, short sounds of desire ripped from his throat. The light touches send Sam hurtling towards the precipice of orgasm in fits and starts, and it's driving him crazy.

“Dean!” Sam protests (begs), looking down at where Dean's crouched between his legs. Dean looks up and locks gazes with Sam. He can't look away as Dean lowers his mouth and takes Sam all the way. He doesn't even have to hold Sam down because Sam's locked all his muscles and wouldn't be able to move if a demon burst into the room. (Salt on the windows and doors, sigils over all the entrances—not gonna happen, but still.) If Sam gets anymore tense, he's going to pull a muscle or strain something.

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling off his dick with a lewd pop. Dean lightly strokes Sam's sides, trying to calm him down. Sam's muscles start to tremble from the strain and he remembers how to breath with short, ragged gulps. “C'mon, relax for me, Sammy. Calm it down.” Sam glares and tries to talk, but all that comes out are these breathy sounds, forced and pitiful.

“I know,” Dean murmurs and presses his lips to Sam's. Kisses Sam until he responds, muscles slowly unwinding, coming down from the place Dean had pushed him. His cock still throbs insistently, but it's manageable now. He opens his eyes and Dean's right there (always there), looking at him fervently. “I know what you need, baby boy.”

One of Dean's fingers pushes past the ring of muscle that guards Sam's heat, and Sam has to agree. Dean really does know what he needs. By the time Dean's got three fingers sliding into him, slick and thick, the tension's back and all Sam can do is let Dean do what he will.

“You want me Sammy?” Dean asks, cock head pressing against Sam's entrance. Sam shudders, and Dean slips in, just a little. Yeah, Sam wants him. Has wanted him since he could remember. He ran away for wanting Dean.

Sam wishes his hands were free, that he could grab Dean and pull him forward until he fills Sam completely. Dean loops his arms around Sam's legs and pulls them over his shoulders, leaving Sam open and exposed. Empty and waiting.

Instead of just pushing in and fucking the hell out of him like Sam expects, Dean works him slowly. Enters Sam with little swivels of his hips, shallow thrusts that gradually get deeper. It's excruciating, this waiting and teasing, but all Sam can do is take it. He's Dean's captive, in every way.

“There's nothing like this,” Dean whispers, sliding in a little further. Dean can see the luminous gold flecks of Sam's eyes. “Nothing compares. It feels real with you, Sammy. Everything feels real.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the awe and worship in Dean's eyes, in the way he looks at Sam. In the way he touches and kisses. It's always been there, beneath the surface of everything Dean does. Sam isn't worth that kind of adoration, and to see it laid bare for him hurts. Sam can feel his eyes tear and fights against them.

Dean chooses a spot on Sam's neck and working on a seriously impressive hickey. Right above Sam's collar bone where Dean can really sink his teeth in. He tastes Sam's sweat and desperation, bites down harder. He plans on this mark lasting for a long, long time. With every nip, he slides a little further into Sam, gets a little closer to euphoria. By the time Dean's hips are snug with Sam's, cock fully seated (finally!), they're both at the brink.

“I can't pretend with you,” Dean confesses. There's a quiet tremor in his voice, one Sam mirrors with his body. It's true. Where Dean deflects and hides with everyone else, he's given everything to Sam. Bartered away his soul. Even let Sam go when he asked. Dean kisses the mark he's put on Sam's neck. “I don't want to.”

“God, Dean,” Sam sobs, begs, vowels round and drawn out, like he doesn't quite remember how to speak them. He's amazed that he can string syllables together in a meaningful way since Dean's taken him apart and Sam can't think much beyond his brother's cock in his ass. “Dean, please!”

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean breathes. He snaps his hips forward, twists them so he rubs against Sam's sweet spot with every stroke. He's given up the pretense of control, and Sam yells his approval. Writhes beneath him, meets Dean thrust for thrust. Dean feels his orgasm coming, pleasure curling at the base of his spine. It's not going to take long, he's almost there. So close...

Dean crushes their mouths together and comes, orgasm making his muscles weak and his head spin. He hits Sam's prostate a few more times and Sam's release spill warm and wet between them. Dean whimpers as Sam's internal muscles clamp around his dick, the sensation bordering on pain, and the world fades out till there's nothing left but a cloud of satisfied indulgence.

It takes Dean a few minutes to come back to himself, collapsed on top of Sammy. He feels cold, sweat drying on his back and making his skin pimple. A glance at Sam shows he's still coming down, face pleasure-slack. Dean finds the wherewithal to free Sam's hands and wipe them both down with the shirt. He keeps his movements simple, brain still foggy. He tosses the shirt away and collapses down on the mattress, on his side facing Sam.

Sammy's sprawled on his back, eyes at half-mast. His body glistens in the low light, creating a halo effect that makes Sam look ethereal. Pure.

“Sammy,” Dean breaths, fingers itching to touch again.

Sam looks over at Dean, who watches him guilelessly. Sam lets his eyes travel over his brother, taking in all the skin on display, the play of his muscles. Dean, who just laid himself open and bare in ways Sam hadn't thought possible. Who kissed away his tears when Sam hadn't even realized he'd been crying.

His hands, newly free, wrap around Dean's chest and he buries his face in Dean's chest. He feels fragile and unwound, the ground unstable beneath him, but Dean is as solid as ever. Immutable and lasting. Tireless and determined. Sam's.

The whole of Dean is so much more breathtaking that he's imagined.

“Dean,” he whispers, shaking, searching. Dean's arms grant warmth and security, and the kiss he lays on Sam's lips promises forever.


End file.
